


body like a welcome mat.

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aging, Cuddling, Domestic Fluff, Future Fic, Husbands, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't matter that they've been together for seventeen years (and married for ten), doesn't matter that they're both starting to go gray and soften up, because every time Stiles touches Derek, it feels like the first time all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	body like a welcome mat.

**Author's Note:**

> so I should be working on any one of the three exams I have next week but I just had to post this before I throw myself into the vortex of schoolwork. it's honestly just domestic fluff, like the tooth-rotting kind but hey, we all need some of it in our lives. I hope you lovely readers enjoy! 
> 
> title taken from [Stood A Chance](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AHrNeaSdDb0) by Taking Back Sunday. (:

When Stiles wakes up, it's to an empty bed and weak rays of sunlight warming his skin. The window beside the bed is open and there's a breeze just barely stirring the thick red curtains that have been pulled back. Like every other morning, the birds are singing on the massive tree outside their window and, also like every other morning, Stiles kind of wants to throw something at them to make them quiet down. It's too damn early, his internal clock tells him that much but when he rolls over to glance at the alarm clock, it's difficult to read the bright red numbers, illuminated as they are in the glare of the morning sun. He _thinks_ that the first number is six and in that case, it is _definitely_ too early to get out of bed. With that knowledge, he rolls back over, sun glinting off the gold band around his finger, stretching his limbs out onto Derek's side of the bed. It's his day off and he has a list of errands and chores to do as long as his forearm but sleeping in is a habit he has never been able to shake off so he moves over until his face is pressed into Derek's pillow and inhales deeply. 

He's just gotten comfy again, finding a spot where his shoulder won't stiffen up, when he hears the quiet creak of the front door opening. That is quickly followed by the sound of footsteps, falling soft as snow on the floorboards in the downstairs hallway but the house is old and constantly makes noise so no matter how quiet Derek tries to walk, Stiles knows exactly where he is at all times. There's another echoing creak and then Stiles hears him coming up the stairs and quietly pushing their bedroom door open. He's too comfy to turn over so he's thankful when Derek climbs into the bed beside him and doesn't say anything about the fact that Stiles is in his spot. 

“Morning,” he says instead, sliding over until his chest is pressed up against Stiles' back, corded forearm draping over his waist. His nose is pressed into the sensitive spot underneath Stiles' ear, inhaling his scent and it kind of tickles but Stiles steadfastly ignores the urge to twitch until Derek moves, just slightly. It's a wolf thing, one of many things he's adapted to over the years. 

“Hey,” he murmurs in return, pressing backwards until they're stuck together like two puzzle pieces. When he brings Derek's hand up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, he can smell pine sap clinging to Derek's fingers. “You go for a run with Scott?” 

“Yeah.” When it had come time for Stiles and Derek to move into a place they could call home (the loft had too many bad memories and the apartment after that had been more like a shoebox than a place to live), they had looked for a place that backed up onto the forest. Conveniently, the creaky old farmhouse they'd decided on, located on the outskirts of town and set back from the road, was only a ten minute walk (if you were a lycanthrope) from where Scott had settled down so all too often, him and Derek were up for runs before Stiles had even thought about getting out of bed. Today is one of those days, judging by how Derek is yawning against his shoulder and lazily nuzzling against his bare skin.

“Catch anything?” he teases and in response, Derek bites down gently with his human teeth, lightly pulling on the thin skin over Stiles' pulse point.

“Shut up,” he growls and Stiles rolls over, wincing slightly as a twinge of pain wriggles through his shoulder. He hadn't checked the weather report last night but judging by how there's a dull ache starting to settle itself into his joints, he has a feeling there's rain on the way. Apparently that wasn't an old wife's tale, no matter how absurd he'd thought it sounded when he was in high school. 

If there was anything good about high school (aside from meeting Derek), the lack of physical pain was definitely worthy of note. Even with all the shit that had gone down, he missed how he could get tackled in lacrosse or fall off of Scott's roof and only feel like crap for a few days. Now, it's more often than not that he wakes up with some sort of pain, whether it's in the shoulder he got shot in a decade ago or in his knees or whether it's in the form of a splitting migraine. 

It's not that he really dislikes being thirty-five, but some days, it would be nice to be young again.

When he gets himself settled again, facing Derek, he presses a closed mouth kiss to the laugh lines engraved at the corner of Derek's lips. It's been a few days since Derek has shaved and his stubble scrapes against Stiles' cheek as he pulls away. His beard comes in more gray than black these days but it still leaves the inside of Stiles' thighs bright red on the nights when Derek takes the time to lick him open. There's a smudge of dirt high on Derek's cheekbone and some dried blood clinging to the corner of his mouth and Stiles gently bumps their foreheads together, trying to ignore the fluttery thing his heart does when Derek's warm hand comes up to rest on the side of his face. 

“I think you should have a shower,” he says quietly, noticing another smudge of dirt on the collar of Derek's black t-shirt. “And I think you should invite me to join you.” 

“You sure you don't want to sleep in some more?” Derek asks, raising one of his eyebrows and before Stiles can answer in the negative, an embarrassingly big yawn rips out of his mouth without prior warning. 

“Shut up,” he mutters once his mouth has snapped closed. He knows exactly the look Derek is giving him, has memorized what his smug expression looks like so he simply tucks his head under Derek's chin and drapes his arm over Derek's middle until his hand is sitting in the middle of his back, with only a thin shirt between the skin of his palm and a warm plane of muscle. Much as he loves the intimacy, it's not a position he can stay in for a long period of time; when he actually sleeps, his limbs end up everywhere and he tosses and turns. But for short naps, it works perfectly well and the last thing he remembers before he dozes off is the feeling of Derek's fingers combing through the long hair at the nape of his neck. 

When he wakes up again, the birds have gotten even louder and Derek has moved away. He's still in the bed though, sitting against the headboard, cradling an ancient looking book in his hands. There's faded gold lettering stitched onto the cover and it looks vaguely Cyrillic in nature but Stiles doesn't try to figure it out beyond that. He'd long ago given up on trying to figure out just how many languages Derek was even vaguely familiar with. There's more dirt and a few grass stains smudged on his dark jeans and when Stiles sits up, rubbing at his eyes, he can spy a tiny piece of a leaf stuck behind Derek's ear.

“Did you and Scott _try_ to get as dirty as possible?” he groans, running a hand through his hair. It's too long and the front of it is sticking up like a porcupine but he just hasn't really felt like getting around to having it cut.

“No, we avoided the mud puddles, just for you,” Derek says, closing his book and precariously setting it on the bedside table, which is already crowded with a lamp, a half-full glass of water, a pair of Stiles' cheap reading glasses and their alarm clock. “But we might need to wash the sheets again.” 

“You're lucky I love you,” Stiles sighs, rolling his eyes in mock-exasperation as he throws his legs over the edge of the bed and shivers as the morning breeze brushes over his exposed skin. 

“Love you too,” Derek answers, sliding out of the bed as well. The words slip past his mouth so easily now; when Derek had tried to spit the words out for the first time, after they'd been together for over six months, it'd been like he was forcing barbed wire out of his mouth. Stiles had simply said _I know_ and kissed him before Derek actually made himself bleed. Now, Derek says it at least five times a day and Stiles savors every time like it's the sweetest sentence in the human language. 

“You still up for that shower?” Derek asks, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it in the hamper with precision accuracy and for a few moments, Stiles' mind kind of blanks because it doesn't matter that they've been together for closer to two decades than one; the flex of Derek's back muscles underneath his tanned skin never fails to make him speechless. His shoulders aren't as broad as they were in their alpha days but truthfully, Stiles is kind of thankful for that, because alpha Derek had been almost _too_ broad. But despite his smaller frame and despite the fact that his black hair is dotted here and there with patches of gray, Derek is still in remarkable shape, is still more hard muscle than anything else. His obsession with staying fit hadn't alleviated with age; he goes running with Scott at least three mornings a week and almost as soon as they'd brought all of their boxes into the house, he'd installed a pull up bar in the door frame of their living room. 

Of course, Stiles is pretty sure their sex life helps as well. Sure, there are some things they can't do anymore (it's been _years_ since he could wrap his ankles around Derek's neck without his knees being stiff as fuck the next day) but it's still pretty damn awesome, he has to admit, especially when neither of them have to work the next day and they can- 

Stiles blinks away the inappropriate thoughts running rampant in his mind and scrubs a hand down his face. It's been awhile since he's shaved but growing facial hair hasn't gotten any easier with age and there's barely a rasp as his palm drags over his cheek. 

“Yep,” he finally responds, still staring at Derek as he flicks open the button on his dirty jeans and lets them fall to the floor. “Shower sounds great.”

Derek is the only werewolf Stiles has ever known who has a scar. It's a rough-edged circle just above his kneecap, looking exactly like what it is: a bullet hole. It's only two years old and Stiles remembers it all too well, remembers Derek lying on the table at Deaton's (or rather, at Scott's veterinarian office), drenched in cold sweat and gnashing his teeth as wolf's bane coursed through his veins. He'd been standing off to the side, trying not to get in the way, overwhelmed by flashbacks to sophomore year and although Deaton had managed to save the day, the wound had never completely healed, for reasons the officially retired vet couldn't explain.

It certainly isn't a pretty mark, but Stiles loves it nonetheless and considering the scars that dot his own body, getting all up in arms over a single mar on Derek's body (even if it does have an odd purple tinge) would make him one hell of a hypocrite. 

By the time he finally manages to snap out of his thoughts and follow Derek into the bathroom, the shower is already running. Derek hasn't stepped into it though; he's standing in front of the mirror, running a hand over his jaw, staring into the glass like he's trying to read faded writing. Stiles steps behind him and runs his fingers down Derek's spine, watching as goosebumps follow in his wake. 

“Whatcha looking at?” he asks, tracing the waistband of Derek's boxers and gently snapping the elastic back against his skin. 

“Nothing,” Derek mutters before turning around and the lie is so clear on his face that Stiles can't help but snort. It's not the first time he's caught Derek pondering his own reflection and Lord knows he's done the same thing on numerous occasions. He knows how weird it can be, to look in the mirror one day and not really recognize your own face. He knows it on more than one level and he quickly swallows down memories that leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Instead of saying anything (because words still betray him sometimes and lead them into fights over ridiculous issues), he steps forward until Derek is backed against the sink and presses kisses to the corner of his mouth, to the crow's feet flicking out from the corners of his eyes, to the crease set between his eyebrows. When he pulls away, Derek is simply staring at him, eyes slightly glazed over, front teeth just barely visible through his parted lips. 

“Feel better now?” he asks quietly and after a moment of just staring (which Stiles still finds a little bit disconcerting, even after all the years), Derek lunges forward and kisses him so hard Stiles has to dig his fingers into Derek's shoulders just to find balance again. For a few moments, he forgets how to breathe and by the time his brain and his body connect back to each other, Derek is pulling away and pressing one last kiss to Stiles' temple, right where he'd found two gray hairs of his own a few weeks back. 

“Much better,” he says softly before dropping his boxers and stepping into the shower and if Stiles bangs his knee off the sink in his desperation to get his own boxers off, well, that's neither here nor there. 

He's hardly gotten both of his feet flat on the slick floor of the shower before Derek is crowding him against the tiles and Stiles kind of forgets about everything that isn't directly related to touching every inch of Derek that he can reach. It doesn't matter that they've been together for seventeen years (and married for ten), doesn't matter that they're both starting to go gray and soften up. Even though they sometimes argue over the stupidest things (like Stiles' persistent love for sugary cereal and Derek's tendency to leave books on the floor where Stiles can trip over them), every time Stiles touches Derek, it feels like the first time all over again and as Derek's mouth presses against his collarbone and _sucks_ , Stiles has a feeling that isn't ever going to change.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
